The Fire That Walks

It did not start with thunder.

Nor the wrath of gods.

Just a spark—

a cough of heat,

in the hollow hush of dry pine breath.

One leaf curled.

One twig hissed.

And then the forest exhaled flame.

It walked.

On legs of smoke and glowing ash,

through bramble, bark, and beast.

Not a gallop—

a deliberate stride,

slow as judgment,

sure as the fall of dusk.

Trees did not scream.

They bent.

They offered their limbs like ancient priests

at a pyre built for forgetting.

The wind turned loyal.

It fed the flame.

It whispered secrets into the blaze:

“Take the roots,

eat the seed,

unmake the shade.”

And the fire obeyed.

Rivers steamed.

Stone cracked.

The earth peeled back like a blistered drum.

Birdsong was replaced by the roar of hunger—

the deep, bone-humming growl

of something that had waited too long.

Foxes did not run.

They vanished.

Melted into smoke trails

without protest,

like memories burned from a fevered mind.

The sky blushed black.

The stars withdrew.

Only the moon stared down,

pale and blind,

watching an old truth walk upright again.

This was not chaos.

It was ritual.

An old rite,

performed without priest or psalm.

No mercy asked.

None given.

And when it was done—

when the fire folded in on itself,

a glowing snake coiled in sleep—

it left behind silence.

Not peace.

But pause.

Ash where feet once tread.

Smoke like lullabies.

And underneath,

somewhere in the charred bones of root and rot,

a seed.

Not safe.

But waiting.